THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 


Sara  Bard  Field  Wood 


®l^  MotlJ)  Series. 


UNDERNEATH  THE  BOUGH 


"e/f  Book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough, 
^  T^g  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread— and  thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enowT* 


UNDERNEATH  THE  BOUGH 

A  BOOK  OP  VERSES 
BYMICHAEL  FIELD 


IWlland,  Maine 

MdcccxcviiJ 


Tbis  First  Edition  on 
Van  Gelder  paper  con- 
sists of  g2§  copies. 


GIFT 


COPYRIGHT 

THOMAS  B.  MOSHER 

1898 


^5  D 


FOR  some  years  my  work  has  heen  done 
for  "  the  younger  generation^*  — not  yet 
knocking  at  the  door,  hut  awaited  with  wel- 
come. 

{Meanwhile,  readers  from  further  England 
— if  they  will  pardon  my  so  classing  them — 
have  given  me  that  joy  of  listening  denied  to 
me  in  my  own  island;  and  to  them  I  offer 
this  hook  of  lyrics,  adding  such  new  songs  as 
I  count  my  sweetest  to  those  of  "  The  Old 
IVorld  Series,**  some  of  which,  I  have  reason 
to  hope,  have  won  place  in  their  hearts. 

MICHAEL   FIELD. 

September  8thy  1898. 


316 


INVOCATION. 

THEE,  ApollOy  in  a  ring 
IVe  encompass^  carolling 
Of  the  flowersy  fruits  and  creatures 

That  thy  features 
Do  express^  and  hy  thy  side 
Live  their  life  half -deified : 
Grasshoppers  that  round  thee  spring 
From  their  mirth  no  minute  sparing  ; 
Hawk  and  griffin  arrow-eyed; 
Cock  the  gracious  day  declaring  ; 
Olive  that  can  only  flourish 
Where  the  fruiting  sunbeams  nourish; 
Laurel  that  can  never  fade  ^ 
That  in  winter  doth  incline  her 
Lustrous  branches  to  embraid 
Chaplets  for  the  lyric  brow  ; 
The  white  swan,  that  fair  diviner, 
IVho  in  death  a  bliss  descrying 
Sings  her  sweetest  notes  a-dying : 
These,  all  these,  to  thee  we  vow, 
IVe  thy  nymphs  who  in  a  ring 
Dance  around  thee,  carolling. 


THE  FIRST  BOOK  OF  SONGS 


THE  TABLE  OF  THE  FIRST  BOOK. 

/.  Mortal,  if  thou  art  beloved 

2.  Once,  his  feet  among  the  roses 

^.  "Let  us  wreathe  the  mighty  cup 

4.  O  wind,  thou  hast  thjy  kingdom  in  the  trees 

5.  Death,  men  say^  is  like  a  sea 

6.  Ah,  Eros  does  not  always  smite 

7.  Wi&o  hath  ever  given 

8.  Sometimes  I  do  despatch  my  heart 
p.  "Down  the  forest-path  I  fled 

10.  1  dance  and  dance  !    Another  faun 

11.  In  the  moony  hrake 

12.  Liove  doth  never  know 

i^.  Love's  wings  are  wondrous  swift 

14.  1/  the  sun  our  white  headlands  with  flame 

75.  Yfhen  I  grow  old 

16.  Ifelt  my  leaves  fall  free 

ly.  A  calm  in  the  flitting  sky 

18.  Sweeping,  sighing  away 

I  p.  Spring! 

20.  Do  you  see  the  poppies  coming 

21.  On  the  gray  dawn-track 

22.  In  winter  sere 

2^.  Through  hazels  and  apples 

24.  Say,  if  a  gallant  rose  my  bower  doth  scale 

2^.  This  rare  south-rose  that  thou  didstjtake 

26.  Ah  me,  if  I  grew  sweet  to  man 

27.  V^here  winds  abound 


THE  FIRST  BOOK  OF  SONGS. 

MORTAL,  if  thou  art  beloved, 
Life's  offences  are  removed : 
All  the  fateful  things  that  checkt  thee, 
Hearten,  hallow,  and  protect  thee. 
Grow'st  thou  mellow  ?     What  is  age  ? 
Tinct  on  life's  illumined  page, 
Where  the  purple  letters  glow 
Deeper,  painted  long  ago. 
What  is  sorrow  ?     Comfort's  prime, 
Love's  choice  Indian  summer-clime. 
Sickness  ?     Thou  wilt  pray  it  worse 
For  so  blessed,  balmy  nurse. 
And  for  death  ?     When  thou  art  dying 
'Twill  be  love  beside  thee  lying. 
Death  is  lonesome  ?     Oh,  how  brave 
Shows  the  foot-frequented  grave  1 
Heaven  itself  is  but  the  casket 
For  Love's  treasure,  ere  he  ask  it. 
Ere  with  burning  heart  he  follow, 
Piercing  through  corruption's  hollow. 
If  thou  art  beloved,  oh  then 
Fear  no  grief  of  mortal  men  I 


ONCE,  his  feet  among  the  roses, 
When  the  roses  were  all  white, 
Eros  wreathed  the  faint,  wan  posies 
Round  Zeus*  goblet ;  but,  ere  sipping, 
'Mid  the  buds  his  ankle  tripping, 
Lavished  half  the  vintage  bright 
On  the  roses,  that,  fresh-dripping. 
Flushed  the  cup  for  heaven's  lipping ; 
And  the  god's  eyes  felt  delight 
That  the  roses  were  not  white. 

But  the  sweetest  of  the  roses. 
By  that  fiery  rain  unfed, 
Coyly  still  her  bosom  closes. 
Still  the  crimson  vesture  misses ; 
Pale  'mid  all  the  purple  this  is. 
Love,  thy  burning  wine-drops  shed  I 
When  her  blushes  make  my  blisses. 
Glowing  answer  to  my  kisses, 
In  thy  triumph  be  it  said 
That  the  roses  are  all  red. 


LET  ns  wreathe  the  mighty  cup. 
Then  with  song  we'll  lift  it  up, 
And,  before  we  drain  the  glow 
Of  the  juice  that  foams  below 
Flowers  and  cool  leaves  round  the  brim. 
Let  us  swell  the  praise  of  him 
Who  is  tyrant  of  the  heart, 
Cupid  with  his  flaming  dart  1 


Pride  before  his  face  is  bowed, 
Strength  and  heedless  beauty  cowed ; 
Underneath  his  fatal  wings 
Bend  discrowned  the  heads  of  kings ; 
Maidens  blanch  beneath  his  eye 
And  its  laughing  mastery ; 
Through  each  land  his  arrows  sound, 
By  his  fetters  all  are  bound. 


OwiND,  thou  hast  thy  kingdom  in  the  trees. 
And  all  thy  royalties 
Sweep  through  the  land  to-day. 
It  is  mid  June, 
And  thou,  with  all  thine  instruments  in  tune, 
Thine  orchestra 
Of  heaving  fields,  and  heavy,  swinging  fir, 
Strikest  a  lay 
That  doth  rehearse 
Her  ancient  freedom  to  the  universe. 
All  other  sound  in  awe 

Repeals  its  law ; 
The  bird  is  mute,  the  sea 
Sucks  up  its  waves,  from  rain 
The  burthened  clouds  refrain. 
To  listen  to  thee  in  thy  leafery. 
Thou  unconfined. 
Lavish,  large,  soothing,  refluent  summer-wind  1 


DEATH,  men  say,  is  like  a  sea 
That  engulfs  mortality, 
Treacherous,  dreadful,  blindingly 
Full  of  storm  and  terror. 

Death  is  like  the  deep,  warm  sand 
Pleasant  when  we  come  to  land, 
Covering  up  with  tender  hand 
The  wave's  drifted  error. 

Life's  a  tortured,  booming  gurge 
Winds  of  passion  strike  and  urge. 
And  transmute  to  broken  surge 
Foam-crests  of  ambition. 

Death's  a  couch  of  golden  ground. 
Warm,  soft,  permeable  mound, 
Where  from  even  memory's  sound 
We  shall  have  remission. 


AH,  Eros  doth  not  always  smite 
With  cruel,  shining  dart, 
Whose  bitter  point  with  sudden  might 

Rends  the  unhappy  heart — 
Not  thus  forever  purple-stained, 

And  sore  with  steely  touch, 
Else  were  its  living  fountain  drained 

Too  oft  and  overmuch. 
O'er  it  sometimes  the  boy  will  deign 

Sweep  the  shaft's  feathered  end  ; 
And  friendship  rises  without  pain 
Where  the  white  plumes  descend. 


WHO  hath  ever  given 
Cupid^s  head  white  hair, 
Or  hath  put  our  roses 
Under  the  snow*s  care  ? 
If  such  a  fool  there  be 
We'll  cry  him  God's  mercie  I 

SOMETIMES  I  do  despatch  my  heart 
Among  the  graves  to  dwell  apart : 
On  some  the  tablets  are  erased, 
Some  earthquake-tumbled,  some  defaced. 
And  some  that  have  forgotten  lain 
A  fall  of  tears  makes  green  again ; 
And  my  brave  heart  can  overtread 
Her  brood  of  hopes,  her  infant  dead. 
And  pass  with  quickened  footsteps  by 
The  headstone  of  hoar  memory. 

Till  she  hath  found 

One  swelling  mound 
With  just  her  name  writ  and  beloved; 
From  that  she  cannot  be  removed. 


DOWN  the  forest-path  I  fled. 
And  followed  a  buzzing  bee. 
Till  he  clomb  a  foxglove  red. 
He  filled  full  the  nodding  cup ; 
I  stood  and  I  laughed  to  see ; 
Then  closed  it  and  shut  him  up. 
Till  I  laughed  and  set  him  free. 


1  DANCE  and  dance !     Another  faun 
A  black  one,  dances  on  the  lawn. 
He  moves  with  me,  and  when  I  lift 
My  heels  his  feet  directly  shift : 
I  can't  outdance  him  though  I  try ; 
He  dances  nimbler  than  I. 
I  toss  my  head,  and  so  does  he ; 
What  tricks  he  dares  to  play  on  me  1 
I  touch  the  ivy  in  my  hair ; 
Ivy  he  has  and  finger  there. 
The  spiteful  thing  to  mock  me  so  I 
I  will  outdance  him !     Ho,  ho,  ho  I 


IN  the  moony  brake, 
When  we  laugh  and  wake, 
And  our  dance  begins, 
Violets  hang  their  chins. 

Fast  asleep ; 
While  we  laugh  and  leap. 

Woodbine  leaves  above, 
Each  a  tiny  dove. 
Roost  upon  the  bare 
Winter  stems,  and  there 

Peaceful  cling ; 
While  we  shout  and  sing. 


10 


On  the  rooty  earth 
Ferns  of  April's  birth, 
Brown  and  closely  furled, 
Sleep  like  squirrels  curled 

Warm  and  still ; 
While  we  frisk  our  fill. 

Hark !  our  ears  have  caught 
Sound  of  breath  and  snort 
Near  our  beechen  tree 
Mixing  carelessly. 
Sprites,  awayl 
Fly  as  if  'twere  day ! 
*        *        *        * 
Silence !  on  the  ground 
Set  the  toadstool  round. 
Of  these  mortals  twain 
We  to  talk  will  deign, 
Grave  and  wise, 
Till  the  morning  rise. 


LOVE  doth  never  know 
Why  it  is  beloved. 
And  to  ask  were  treason : 

Let  the  wonder  grow  1 
Were  its  hopes  removed. 
Were  itself  disproved 

By  cold  reason. 
In  its  happy  season 
Love  would  be  beloved. 


Love's  wings  are  wondrous  swift 
When  hanging  feathers  lift. 
Why  hath  Love  wings, 
Great  pinions  strong  of  curve  ? 
His  wild  desires  to  serve ; 
To  swoop  on  the  prey, 
And  bear  it  away, 
Love  hath  wings. 

Love's  wings  are  golden  soft. 
When  dropping  from  aloft. 

Why  hath  Love  wings, 
Feathers  of  glistening  fleece  ? 
To  soothe  with  balmy  peace, 

And  warmth  of  his  breath 

Souls  he  cherisheth 
Love  hath  wings. 

Love's  wings  are  broad  of  van, 
Stretched  for  great  travel's  span. 

Why  hath  Love  wings. 
Mail  of  the  sea-bird's  might  ? 
From  feeble  hearts  and  slight 

To  lift  him  forlorn 

To  a  fastness  of  scorn. 
Love  hath  wings. 


IS 


IF  the  sun  our  white  headlands  with  flame 
Failed  to  greet, 
Should  we  deem  he  would  shroud  them  in  shame  ? 
Nay,  blot 
The  sweet 
Daylight  not ; 
Heaven  forgot. 

If  soft  spring  failed  the  flowers  name  by  name 

To  entreat, 
Should  we  fear  she  would  harden  earth's  frame  ? 

Her  hot 

Breath  sweet 

Bloweth  not ; 

She  forgot. 

From  my  love  if  no  gay  token  came, 

Were  it  meet 
To  think  she  had  slighted  love's  claim  ? 

A  knot 

So  sweet 

Snappeth  not ; 

She  forgot. 

If  a  land  full  of  memories  and  fame 

At  the  feet 
Of  a  tyrant  bowed  down,  should  we  blame  ? 

A  spot 

So  sweet 

Sinneth  not ; 

It  forgot. 


13 


WHEN  I  grow  old, 
I  would  be  bold 
To  ask  of  heaven  this  boon : 
Like  the  thin-circled  and  translucent  moon, 
That  makes  intrusion 
Unnoted  on  the  morning  sky, 
And  with  soft  eye 
Watches  the  thousand,  grassy  flowers  unfold, 
I  would  be  free. 
Without  confusion 
Of  influence  cold, 
To  pause  and  see 
The  flush  of  youth  in  its  felicity. 

AN  APPLE-FLOWER. 

I  FELT  my  leaves  fall  free, 
I  felt  the  wind  and  sun. 
At  my  heart  a  honey-bee  : 
And  life  was  done. 

A  CALM  in  the  flitting  sky. 
And  in  the  calm  a  moon, 
A  youngling  golden : 
*Mid  windy  shades  an  olden 
Oak-tree  whose  branches  croon 
As  the  orb  sails  by. 
Heigh  ho  1 
Youth  and  age,  the  soft  and  dry, 
While  breezes  blow. 


14 


Its  crooked  arm  the  oak 
Points  upward  to  the  moon ; 

A  sapless  member, 
Which  scorching  of  November 
And  levin  shafts  of  June 
In  their  season  broke. 
Heigh  ho  1 
Age  is  gruff  with  blight  and  stroke, 
While  breezes  blow. 

But  storm  has  left  no  trace 
Upon  the  blithe  new  moon. 
That  westward  slideth, 
And  on  the  white  wind  rideth  : 
It  does  not  weary  soon 
Of  the  blowing  race. 
Heigh  ho  1 
Youth  is  free  and  sweet  of  face, 
While  breezes  blow. 


WIND   IN    FIR  TREES. 

"  (Methinks  the  wind  bath  spoke  aloud.'* 

OTHELLO. 

SWEEPING,  sighing  away 
Over  the  fir-trees  gray. 
Sweeping,  grating,  sighing  away ! 
As  one  that  seeketh  not  to  find 
Thou  ravest  through  the  pines,  O  Wind ; 
Across  the  pines  I  hear  thee  rave 
Sick  as  a  madman  for  his  grave ; 


IS 


And  I  have  caught  thee  in  the  West, 
Coming  from  thy  prayer  unblest, 
Coming  from  the  sun  at  rest, 

With  the  tedium  in  thy  cry 
Of  a  breath  that  cannot  die, 

With  the  rancour  in  thy  glee 
Of  a  god  who  has  lost  his  memory 
In  search  of  the  things  that  were  wont  to  be. 


GRASS  IN   SPRING. 

SPRING  1 
The  light  is  stronger,  the  air  is  shuddering, 
The  sky  is  smiling  through  sun-clouds  that  shall  be 
showers. 
And  the  grass  is  caught  imagining 
Flowers. 


POPPY  SONG. 

Do  you  see  the  poppies  coming ? 
Do  you  see  the  poppies  come  ? 
Do  you  see  the  poppies  coming, 
Do  you  hear  their  seedy  hum  ? — 
Large  poppies  of  the  night 
In  their  bands  of  blue  and  white, 
Poppies  fading  from  my  sight 
As  they  come. 

i6 


DREAMS. 

ON  the  gray  dawn-track 
Dreams  are  hastening  back 
To  the  years : 
That  is  why  the  air  is  busy, 
That  is  why  the  eye  grows  dizzy 
As  the  little  ghosts  from  play 

Speed  away 
To  the  mouldering  years. 


IN  winter  sere, 
We  little  men  o'  the  hill 
No  longer  duck  and  peer 
Up  holy  daffodil. 

Nor  suck  the  egg 

That  the  cuckoo  lays, 

Nor  the  angry  leg 

Of  the  chafer  wring 

Till  the  gray-pate  sing 

With  his  stiff  amaze : 

No,  no,  no,  no  1 
To  keep  ourselves  warm  in  row 
We  run — ta,  la,  la,  lo ! 

A  valley's  end 
Is  steep  and  flat  at  the  top, 
No  pathways  there  may  wend 
Across  the  sweet-fern  crop 

17 


As  dead  as  straw ; 
At  the  sign-post  wiy 
All  the  winds  see-saw, 
And  with  chilly  feet 
We  little  ones  meet 
On  the  rim  of  sky. 
We  start,  stay,  go, 
And  down  to  the  pool  below 
We  mn — ta,  la,  la,  lo  1 


THROUGH  hazels  and  apple 
My  love  I  led, 
Where  the  sunshine  dapples 

The  strawberry-bed : 
Did  we  pluck  and  eat 
That  mom,  my  sweet  ? 

And  back  by  the  alley 

Our  path  I  chose. 
That  we  might  dally 

By  one  rare  rose : 
Did  we  smell  at  the  heart. 

And  then  depart  ? 

A  lover,  who  grapples 

With  love,  doth  live 
Where  roses  and  apples 

Have  naught  to  give : 
Did  I  take  my  way 

Unfed  that  day? 


i8 


SAY,  if  a  gallant  rose  my  bower  doth  scale, 
Higher  and  higher. 
And,  the'  she  twine  the  other  side  the  pale. 
Toward  me  doth  sigh  her 
Perfume,  her  damask  mouth — 
Roses  will  love  the  south — 
Can  I  deny  her  ? 

I  have  a  lady  loves  me  in  despite 

Of  bonds  that  tie  her. 
And  bid  her  honest  Corin*s  flame  requite ; 
When  I  espy  her, 
Kisses  are  near  their  birth — 
Love  cannot  live  in  dearth — 
Say,  shall  I  fly  her? 


THIS  rare  south  rose  that  thou  didst  take 
And  send  to  me  across  the  snows. 
Bidding  me  wear  it  for  thy  sake — 
Oh,  deem  me  not  unkind  1 
I  cannot  wear  it  for  thy  sake, 
For  it  has  opened  me  the  wild  daybreak 

And  scented  all  the  wind : 
In  Paestum's  seven-petalled  rose 

My  thirst  I  slake ; 
Or  warm  my  senses  in  a  secret  bower 
Of  inmost  Persia :  Beauty  has  such  power 
She  cannot  keep  a  bond ;  but  doth  decree 
Love  in  her  affluent  presence  free. 


19 


AH  me,  if  I  grew  sweet  to  man 
It  was  but  as  a  rose  that  can 
No  longer  keep  the  breath  that  heaves 
And  swells  among  its  folded  leaves. 

The  pressing  fragrance  would  unclose 
The  flower,  and  I  became  a  rose, 
That  unimpeachable  and  fair 
Planted  an  odour  in  the  air. 

No  art  I  used  men's  love  to  draw ; 
I  lived  but  by  my  being's  law, 
As  roses  are  by  heaven  designed 
To  bring  the  honey  to  the  wind. 

I  found  there  is  scant  sun  in  spring, 
I  found  the  blast  a  riving  thing ; 
Yet  even  ruined  roses  can 
No  other  than  be  sweet  to  man. 


WHERE  winds  abound, 
And  fields  are  hilly, 
Shy  daffadilly 
Looks  down  on  the  ground. 

Rose  cones  of  larch 
Are  just  beginning ; 
Though  oaks  are  spinning 
No  oak-leaves  in  March. 

Spring's  at  the  core. 
The  boughs  are  sappy : 
Good  to  be  happy 
So  long,  long  before  1 


THE  SECOND  BOOK  OF  SONGS 


THE  TABLE  OF  THE  SECOND  BOOK. 

/.  Slowljf  we  disarray 

2,  I  stood  to  hear  that  hold 

).  Others  may  drag  at  memory s  fetter 

4.  "Bring  me  life  of  fickle  hreath 

5.  Ah  me,  how  sadder  than  to  say  farewell 

6.  "Deathjfor  all  thy  grasping  stealth 

7.  laittle  Lettice  is  deady  they  say 

8.  I  would  not  have  the  wind  pass  hy 
p.  Solitary  Death,  make  me  thy  own 

10.  Come  mete  me  out  my  loneliness,  0  wind 

11.  I  by  spells  had  been  beguiled 

12.  O  Love,  0  bitter,  mortal  journeying 
i^.  I  would  not  die 

14.  They  buried  him — ah,  I  have  not  thought — 

75.  S^^  gathered  me  rue  and  roses 

16,  V^hen  thou  to  death,  fond  one,  wouldst 

fain  be  starting 

ly.  There  is  a  fair  white  relic  in  my  room 

18.  Vain  Death,  thou  hast  no  staying  / 

/p.  Vfinds  to-day  are  large  and  free 

20.  H^  with  the  Gentle  Ones  is  hid  from  sight 

2  /»  Thanatos,  thv  praise  I  sing 


THE  SECOND  BOOK  OF  SONGS. 

SLOWLY  we  disarray, 
Our  leaves  grow  few, 
Few  on  the  bough,  and  many  on  the  sod : 
Round  him  no  ruining  autumn  tempest  blew ; 
Gathered  on  genial  day, 
He  fills,  fresh  as  Apollo's  bay, 
The  Hand  of  God. 


1  STOOD  to  hear  that  bold 
Sentence  of  grit  and  mould. 
Earth  to  earth  ;  they  thrust 
On  his  coffin  dust ; 
Stones  struck  against  his  grave : 
O  the  old  days,  the  brave  I 

Just  with  a  pebble's  fall. 
Grave-digger,  you  turn  all 

Bliss  to  bereaving ; 

To  catch  the  cleaving 
Of  Atropa's  fine  shears 
Would  less  hurt  human  ears. 

25 


Live  senses  that  death  dooms! 

For  friendship  in  dear  rooms, 
Slow-lighting  faces, 
Hand-clasps,  embraces. 

Ashes  on  ashes  grind : 

O  poor  lips  left  behind  I 

Mortality  turns  round 
On  mortals  in  that  sound : 

Ears  are  for  the  knell 

Of  a  muffled  bell: 
Touch,  for  clods  of  earth ; 
Sight,  for  torture  and  dearth. 


OTHERS  may  drag  at  memory's  fetter. 
May  turn  for  comfort  to  the  vow 
Of  mortal  breath ;  I  hold  it  better 
To  learn  if  verily  and  how 
Love  knits  me  with  the  loved  one  now. 

Others  for  solace,  sleep-forsaken. 
May  muse  upon  the  days  of  old ; 
To  me  it  is  delight  to  waken, 
To  find  my  Dead,  to  feel  them  fold 
My  heart,  and  for  its  dross  give  gold. 


26 


BRING  me  life  of  fickle  breath, 
Bring  me  death ; 
Summon  every  hope's  alloy ; 
Gather  round  me  what  doth  most 

Love  to  boast 
That  it  can  our  bliss  deflower  1 
There  is  now  no  mortal  power 
That  can  feed  upon  my  joy ; 
Every  terror  is  overthrown : 
I  have  found  the  magic  stone, 
For  a  dead  heart  is  my  own. 

Henceforth  is  it  not  pure  gold 

To  grow  old  ? 
Let  the  hours  of  parting  fleet ! 
While  to  think  of  what  befell 

Is  to  dwell 
At  the  mouth  o'  the  honeycomb 
Where  the  soul-bee  hath  its  home, 
Where  the  soul-bee  hives  its  sweet. 
And  the  heaven  to  come  at  last ! 
Bravely  may  I  now  forecast 
Since  I  hold  the  loved  one  fast. 


27 


AH  me,  how  sadder  than  to  say  farewell 
It  is  to  meet 
Dreading  that  Love  hath  lost  his  spell 

And  changed  his  sweet ! 
I  would  we  were  again  to  part, 
With  that  full  heart. 

The  hawthorn  was  half-bud,  half-flower, 

At  our  goodbye ; 
And  braver  to  me  since  that  hour 

Are  earth  and  sky : 
My  God,  it  were  too  poor  a  thing 

To  meet  this  spring. 

Our  hearts — life  never  would  have  marge 

To  bear  their  tides, 
Their  confluent  rush!     Lo,  death  is  large 

In  boundary-sides ; 
And  our  great  x^*P^  must  be  said 

When  I  am  dead. 


28 


DEATH,  for  all  thy  grasping  stealth, 
Thou  dost  convey 
Lands  to  us  of  broadest  wealth,  >;  c^-^j^|^»^  ; 

That  stretch  away 
Where  the  sunshine  hath  no  foil, 
Past  the  verge  of  our  dark  soil, 
Past  the  rim  where  clouds  uncoil. 

Mourners,  whom  thine  avarice  dooms. 

Once  given  a  space 
In  thy  kingdom  past  the  tombs, 

With  open  face 
See  the  smallness  of  our  skies. 
Large,  until  a  mortal  dies 
And  shrinks  them  to  created  size, 

O  the  freedom,  that  doth  spread, 

When  life  is  shown 
The  great  countries  that  the  dead 

Have  open  thrown ; 
Where  at  our  best  leisure,  we 
With  a  spirit  may  walk  free 
From  terrestrial  poverty. 


29 


LITTLE  Lettice  is  dead,  they  say, 
The  brown  sweet  child  that  rolled  in  the  hay ; 
Ah,  where  shall  we  find  her? 
For  the  neighbours  pass 
To  the  pretty  lass, 
In  a  linen  cere-cloth  to  wind  her. 

If  her  sister  were  set  to  search 

The  nettle-green  nook  beside  the  church, 

And  the  way  were  shown  her 

Through  the  coffin-gate 

To  her  dead  playmate, 
She  would  fly  too  frighted  to  own  her. 

Should  she  come  at  a  noonday  call, 
Ah,  stealthy,  stealthy,  with  no  footfall, 

And  no  laughing  chatter. 

To  her  mother  'twere  worse 

Than  a  barren  curse 
That  her  own  little  wench  should  pat  her. 

Little  Lettice  is  dead  and  gone  ! 

The  stream  by  her  garden  wanders  on     i 

Through  the  rushes  wider; 

She  fretted  to  know 

How  its  bright  drops  grow 
On  the  hills,  but  no  hand  would  guide  her. 


30 


Little  Lattice  is  dead  and  lost  1 

Her  willow-tree  boughs  by  storm  are  tossed- 

O  the  swimming  sallows ! — 

Where  she  crouched  to  find 

The  nest  of  the  wind 
Like  a  water-fowPs  in  the  shallows. 

Little  Lettice  is  out  of  sight  1 

The  river-bed  and  the  breeze  are  bright : 

Ay  me,  were  it  sinning 

To  dream  that  she  knows 

Where  the  soft  wind  rose 
That  her  willow-branches  is  thinning  ? 

Little  Lettice  has  lost  her  name, 

Slipt  away  from  our  praise  and  our  blame ; 

Let  not  love  pursue  her, 

But  conceive  her  free 

Where  the  bright  drops  be 
On  the  hills,  and  no  longer  rue  her  I 


31 


1  WOULD  not  have  the  wind  pass  by 
I  would  not  have  it  rave, 
I  would  not  have  the  wind  draw  nigh 
That  whistled  o'er  his  grave. 

I  would  not  have  the  rain  beat  round, 
I  would  not  hear  the  rain ; 

There  is  no  comfort  in  the  sound, 
No  comfort  for  us  twain. 

But  I  would  have  the  snow  drift  high, 
And  to  my  house-roof  cling, 

So  for  a  night  at  least  we  lie 
Beneath  one  covering. 


SOLITARY  Death,  make  me  thine  own. 
And  let  us  wander  the  bare  fields  together ; 
Yea,  thou  and  I  alone, 
Roving  in  unembittered  unison  forever. 

I  will  not  harry  thy  treasure-graves, 
I  do  not  ask  at  thy  still  hands  a  lover ; 

My  heart  within  me  craves 
To  travel  till  we  twain  Time's  wilderness  discover. 

To  sojourn  with  thee  my  soul  was  bred, 
And  I,  the  courtly  sights  of  life  refusing, 

To  the  wide  shadows  fled. 
And  mused  upon  thee  often  as  I  fell  a-musing. 


32 


Escaped  from  chaos,  thy  mother  Night, 
In  her  maiden  breast  a  burthen  that  awed  her. 

By  cavern  waters  white 
Drew  thee  her  first-born,  her  unfathered  offspring, 
toward  her. 

On  dewy  plats,  near  twilight  dingle. 
She  oft,  to  still  thee  from  men's  sobs  and  curses 

In  thine  ears  a-tingle, 
Pours  her  cool  charms,  her  weird,  reviving  chaunt 
rehearses. 

Though  mortals  menace  thee  or  elude, 
And  from  thy  confines  break  in  swift  transgression, 

Thou  for  thyself  art  sued 
Of  me,  I  claim  thy  cloudy  purlieus  my  possession. 

To  a  lone  freshwater,  where  the  sea 
Stirs  the  silver  flux  of  the  reeds  and  willows. 

Come  thou,  and  beckon  me 
To  lie  in  the  lull  of  the  sand-sequestered  billows : 

Then  take  the  life  I  have  called  my  own 
And  to  the  liquid  universe  deliver ; 

Loosening  my  spirit's  zone, 
Wrap  round  me  as  thy  limbs  the  wind,  the  light, 
the  river. 


33 


COME,  mete  me  out  my  loneliness,  o  wind, 
For  I  would  know 
How  far  the  living  who  must  stay  behind 
Are  from  the  dead  who  go. 

Eternal  Passer-by,  I  feel  there  is 

In  thee  a  stir, 
A  strength  to  span  the  yawning  distances 

From  her  grave-stone  to  her. 


I  BY  spells  had  been  beguiled 
To  a  marish  country  wild, 
Where  a  lonely  hearted  child 
Crossed  me ;  and  I  felt  she  knew 
All  the  way  she  wandered  through, 
Though  the  reeds  around  her  blew, 
And  the  dusk  was  in  her  rear, 
As  I  watched  her  disappear 
'Mid  the  flitting  umbrage  drear. 


THE   HALCYON. 

6s  T^M  Ki5/iaros  Avdos  dfx^ d\Kv6v€0-<n  iroTrjTaL 
VT]\€yks  ^Top  ix^^i  oi,\(,'jr6p<f>vpos  ^lapos  6pvLs. 

Alcman. 

OLOVE,  o  bitter,  mortal  journeying 
By  ways  that  are  not  told  I 
I  would  not  sing,  no  song  is  sweet  to  me 
Now  thou  art  gone : 


34 


But  would,  ah  would  I  were  the  halcyon, 
That  sea-blue  bird  of  spring, 
So  should  I  bring 
Fair  sister-companies  of  fleetest  wing 
To  bear  thee  on. 
Thou  being  old, 
With  an  untroubled  heart  to  carry  thee 
Safe  o'er  the  ridges  of  the  wearying  sea. 

I  WOULD  not  die 
To  meet  a  goodly  company ; 
I  was  ever,  ever  shy. 
And  have  loved  to  live  retired. 
That  I  might  con 
Some  mystery  scarce  pondered  on. 
Oh,  this  I  have  desired  ! 

No  hope  to  brood 

Where  harpers  wing  on  wing  intrude. 

Or  bold  saints  with  trumpets  rude ; 

Where  four  beasts  from  turning  eyne 

Watch  my  strange  ways : 

But  in  concealment  of  deep  rays 

May  some  recess  be  mine ! 

I  never  can. 

On  earth,  though  quite  escaped  from  man, 

Put  society  under  ban : 

Buzzing  bees  swing  in  a  flower. 

Gnats  drum  and  dance. 

The  weasel  intercepts  my  trance. 

Birds  warble  through  a  bower. 


35 


Once  Chloe  graced 

My  suit ;  how  fondly  we  embraced ! 

Still  my  arm  was  round  her  waist : 

Chloe  dropt  her  pretty  head 

Upon  my  knee, 

And  Love  was  left  alone  with  me 

Just  while  she  slumbered. 

And  once  I  lay 

In  sickness ;  I  had  swooned  away, 

For  I  wandered  as  at  play ; 

It  was  untethered  innocence : 

Naught  of  my  own 

I  had,  the  night  was  open  thrown, 

Sound  wrought  no  more  offence. 

Endowed  by  thee, 

Death,  let  me  enter  privacy, 

Unmorose  and  fellowly 

To  mix,  with  the  free  pleasure 

Of  stars  and  springs 

And  magic,  unfamiliar  things, 

My  beauteous  leisure. 


36 


THEY  buried  him — ah,  I  have  not  thought- 
It  is  thirteen  years  ago. 
Whether  the  years  have  been  long  or  short 

I  shall  never  know : 
Only  my  heart  cries  out  with  tears 
To  go  to  him  in  his  grave,  to  go 
To  the  long,  long  years. 


SHE  mingled  me  rue  and  roses, 
And  I  found  my  bliss  complete : 
The  roses  are  gone. 
But  the  rue  lives  on. 
The  bitter  that  lived  with  the  sweet. 

Life  will  mingle  you  rue  and  roses ; 
The  roses  will  fall  at  your  feet : 

But  deep  in  the  rue 

That  their  leaves  bestrew 
The  bitter  will  smell  of  the  sweet. 


WHEN  thou  to  death,  fond  one,  wouldst  fain  be 
starting, 
I  did  not  pray 
That  thou  shouldst  stay ; 
Alone  I  lay 
And  dreamed  and  wept  and  watched  thee  on  thy  way. 


37 


But  now  thou  dost  return,  yea,  after  parting, 

And  me  embrace, 

Our  souls  enlace ; 

Ask  thou  no  grace ; 
Thou  shalt  be  aye  confined  to  this  place. 

Alone,  alone  I  lie,  ah,  bitter  smarting! 

Thou  to  the  last 

Didst  cling,  kiss  fast, 

Yet  art  thou  past 
Beyond  me,  in  the  hollow  of  a  blast. 


THERE  is  a  fair,  white  relic  in  my  room : 
God,  how  I  love  it  1 

Twine,  twine 
Green  keys  of  sycamine 
Round  and  above  it. 
Then  lay  it  softly  in  my  heart's  new  tomb. 

Ah,  mourning  friends,  these  sullen  sighs  and  deep 

No  longer  breathe  me ! 
Sing,  sing 

Praise  of  the  royal  thing 

Death  doth  bequeath  me,  ^ 

And  carve  me  in  my  memory  to  keep ! 


38 


VAIN  Death,  thou  hast  no  staying, 
Thou  dost  not  lag  behind 
Dear  Life  in  thy  decaying ; 
An  instant  thou  dost  claim 
My  Dahlia's  frame ; 
But  this  corruption  that  men  call  thy  preying 
Is  love  that  blows  thee  to  the  wind. 


WINDS  to-day  are  large  and  free, 
Winds  to-day  are  westerly ; 
From  the  land  they  seem  to  blow 
Whence  the  sap  begins  to  flow 
And  the  dimpled  light  to  spread, 
From  the  country  of  the  dead. 

Ah,  it  is  a  wild,  sweet  land 

Where  the  coming  May  is  planned, 

Where  such  influences  throb 

As  our  frosts  can  never  rob 

Of  their  triumph,  when  they  bound 

Through  the  tree  and  from  the  ground. 

Great  within  me  is  my  soul. 
Great  to  journey  to  its  goal. 
To  the  country  of  the  dead ; 
For  the  cornel-tips  are  red, 
And  a  passion  rich  in  strife 
Drives  me  toward  the  home  of  life. 

39 


Oh,  to  keep  the  spring  with  them 
Who  have  flushed  the  cornel-stem, 
Who  imagine  at  its  source 
All  the  year*s  delicious  course, 
Then  express  by  wind  and  light 
Something  of  their  rapture's  height ! 


UNCONSCIOUSNESS. 

HE  with  the  Gentle  Ones  is  hid  from  sight : 
We  may  not  follow.     He  hath  dwelt  with  woes 
So  dread,  he  lays  his  confidence  in  those 
Men  shrink  from,  who  remember  and  requite. 
O  comfort  him,  sweet  daughters  of  the  Night, 
For  fear  of  whom  man's  thought  doth  softly  tread ; 
Within  your  grove  let  him  be  deeply  led 
To  reconciliation  and  repose. 


40 


THANATOS,  thy  praise  I  sing, 
Thou  immortal,  youthful  king  1 
Glorious  offerings  I  will  bring ; 
For  men  say  thou  hast  no  shrine, 
And  I  find  thou  art  divine 
As  no  other  god  :  thy  rage 
Doth  preserve  the  Golden  Age, 
What  we  blame  is  thy  delay ; 
Cut  the  flowers  ere  they  decay  1 

Come,  we  would  not  derogate, 
Age  and  nipping  pains  we  hate. 
Take  us  at  our  best  estate : 
While  the  head  bums  with  the  crown, 
In  the  battle  strike  us  down ! 
At  the  bride-feast  do  not  think 
From  thy  summons  we  should  shrink ; 
We  would  give  our  latest  kiss 
To  a  life  still  warm  with  bliss. 

Come  and  take  us  to  thy  train 
Of  dead  maidens  on  the  plain 
Where  white  lilies  have  no  stain ; 
Take  us  to  the  youths,  that  thou 
Lov'st  to  choose,  of  fervid  brow, 
Unto  whom  thy  dreaded  name 
Hath  been  simply  known  as  Fame : 
With  these  unpolluted  things 
Be  our  endless  revellings. 


THE  THIRD  BOOK  OF  SONGS 


THE  TABLE  OF  THE  THIRD  BOOK. 

/.  V^hen  high  Zeus  first  peopled  earth 

2.  Methinks  rny  love  to  thee  doth  grow 

^.  Thou  must  not  leave  me 

4.  It  was  deep  April  and  the  morn 

5.  Apollo  and  the  Muses  taught  thee  not 

6.  There  comes  a  change  in  her  breath 

7.  A  girl 

8.  Our  myrtle  is  in  flower 

9.  Yiaveyou  seen  the  olives  at  set  of  sun 
JO,  She  lies  asleep :  I  watching  do  not  dare 

11,  O  sweety  all  sweety  the  body  as  the  shyer 

12.  yiine  is  the  eddying  foam  and  the  broken 

current 
i^.    Sweet  of  my  poet  how  sweet  are  the  eyesy 

the  eyelids 
14,    Though  I  sing  high  and  chaunt  above  her 
75.     Shall  there  ever  be  a  morn 
16,    I  love  her  with  the  seasons y  with  the  winds 


".ocKf  g:.. 


THE  THIRD  BOOK  OF  SONGS. 

WHEN  high  Zeus  first  peopled  earth, 
As  sages  say, 
All  were  children  of  one  birth, 
Helpless  nurslings.     Doves  and  bees 
Tended  their  soft  infancies : 
Hand  to  hand  they  tossed  the  ball, 
And  none  smiled  to  see  the  play, 
Nor  stood  aside 
In  pride 
And  pleasure  of  their  youthful  day. 

Then  all  waxed  gray, 
Mourning  in  companies  the  winter  dearth : 
Whatever  they  saw  befall 
Their  neighbours,  they 
Felt  in  themselves ;  so  lay 
On  life  a  pall. 

Zeus  at  the  confusion  smiled, 

And  said,  "  From  hence 
Man  by  change  must  be  beguiled ; 
Age  with  royalties  of  death. 
Childhood  sweeter  than  its  breath, 


47 


Will  be  won,  if  we  provide 
Generation's  difference." 

Wisely  he  planned ; 

The  tiny  hand 
In  eld*s  weak  palm  found  providence, 

And  each  through  influence 
Of  things  beholden  and  not  borne  grew  mild ; 
Youths  by  the  old  man's  side 

Their  turbulence 

To  crystal  sense 

Saw  clarified. 

Dear,  is  not  the  story's  truth 

Most  manifest  ? 
Had  our  lives  been  twined,  forsooth, 
We  had  never  had  one  heart : 
By  Time  set  a  space  apart, 
We  are  bound  by  such  close  ties 
None  can  tell  of  either  breast 
The  native  sigh 
Who  try 
To  learn  with  whom  the  Muse  is  guest. 

How  sovereignly  I*m  blest 
To  see  and  smell  the  rose  of  my  own  youth 
In  thee :  how  pleasant  lies 

My  life,  at  rest 
From  dream,  its  hope  expressed 
Before  mine  eyes. 


48 


METHINKS  my  love  to  thee  doth  grow, 
And  this  the  sign : 
I  see  the  Spirit  claim  thee, 
And  do  not  blame  thee. 
Nor  break  intrusive  on  the  Holy  Ground 
Where  thou  of  God  art  found. 

I  watch  the  fire 
Leap  up,  and  do  not  bring 
Fresh  water  from  the  spring 
To  keep  it  from  up-flaming  higher 
Than  my  chilled  hands  require 

For  cherishing. 

I  see  thy  soul  turn  to  her  hidden  grot, 

And  follow  not ; 
Content  thou  shouldst  prefer 

To  be  with  her. 
The  heavenly  Muse,  than  ever  find  in  me 

Best  company. 

So  brave  my  love  is  grown, 
I  joy  to  find  thee  sought 

By  some  great  thought ; 
And  am  content  alone 
To  eat  lifers  common  fare, 

While  thou  prepare 
To  be  my  royal  moment's  guest : 

Live  to  the  Best  1 


49 


THOU  must  not  leave  me ! 
Though  'tis  a  mournful  land 
Through  which  I  travel, 
I  will  but  guide  thee,  hand  in  hand. 
To  mysteries  thou  must  in  art  unravel. 
When  thou  a  little  way  art  gone, 
Ere  the  grove's  steep  descent 
Darkening  can  grieve  thee, 
Thou  backward  to  the  sweet  stars  shalt  be  sent ; 
While  I  plod  on 
To  Acheron. 


IT  was  deep  April,  and  the  morn 
Shakspere  was  born ; 
The  world  was  on  us,  pressing  sore ; 
My  Love  and  I  took  hands  and  swore, 

Against  the  world,  to  be 
Poets  and  lovers  evermore, 
To  laugh  and  dream  on  Lethe's  shore. 
To  sing  to  Charon  in  his  boat. 
Heartening  the  timid  souls  afloat ; 
Of  judgment  never  to  take  heed. 
But  to  those  fast-locked  souls  to  speed, 
Who  never  from  Apollo  fled. 
Who  spent  no  hour  among  the  dead ; 

Continually 

With  them  to  dwell. 
Indifferent  to  heaven  and  hell. 

SO 


Tots  fxkv  &0LhiiLS^  Toh  5*  a9  daKp^^wv 
Biov  dfi^Xotiirbv  trap^x^^^^^' 

APOLLO  and  the  Muses  taught  thee  not 
Thy  mighty  strain,  enchantment  to  the  mind, 
Thralling  the  heart  by  spell  of  holy  fears ; 
Awful  thou  sought'st  Erinys*  sacred  grot ; 
And  the  Eternal  Goddess,  well  inclined, 
Hath  given  thee  songs,  for  the  dull  life  of  tears. 


THERE  comes  a  change  in  her  breath, 
A  change  that  saith 
She  is  breathing  in  her  sleep. 
Breathing,  breathing  and  yet  so  low : 
O  life  at  ebb,  O  life  at  flow. 
Her  life,  her  breath ! 


A  GIRL, 
Her  soulI  a  deep-wave  pearl 
Dim,  lucent  of  all  lovely  mysteries  ; 
A  face  flowered  for  heart's  ease, 
A  brow's  grace  soft  as  seas 
Seen  through  faint  forest-trees  : 
A  mouth,  the  lips  apart. 
Like  aspen-leaflets  trembling  in  the  breeze 
From  her  tempestuous  heart. 
Such :  and  our  souls  so  knit, 
I  leave  a  page  half-writ — 
The  work  begun 
Will  be  to  heaven's  conception  done, 
If  she  come  to  it. 


SI 


OUR  myrtle  is  in  flower ; 
Behold  Love's  power  1 
The  glorious  stamens*  crowded  force  unfurled, 

Cirque  beyond  cirque 
At  breathing,  bee-like,  and  harmonious  work ; 
The  rose-patched  petals  backward  curled, 

Falling  away 
To  let  fecundity  have  perfect  play. 

O  flower,  dear  to  the  eyes 

Of  Aphrodite,  rise 
As  she  at  once  to  bare,  audacious  bliss ; 

And  bid  us  near 
Your  prodigal,  delicious  hemisphere. 
Where  thousand  kisses  breed  the  kiss 

That  fills  the  room 
With  languor  of  an  acid,  dark  perfume  1 


FORSAKING. 

HAVE  you  seen  the  olives  at  set  of  sun, 
How  their  fiery  maze. 
That  tossed  him  his  sparkles,  snatched  his  rays. 
Becomes  a  region  of  limitless  grays. 
Dead,  bough  on  bough. 
For  lack  of  the  sun  ? 
Love,  this  is  how 
Living  would  be  if  thy  life' were  ran : 
Leave  me  not,  thou ! 


52 


A   PRAYER. 


SHE  lies  asleep :  I,  watching,  do  not  dare 
Pray  for  her  dole  or  bliss : 
Give  the  sweet  face  whatever,  being  there. 
Thou  needs  must  kiss  I 


SWEET-BRIAR   IN   ROSE. 


SO  sweet,  all  sweet, — the  body  as  the  shyer 
Sweet  seiises,  and  the  Spirit  sweet  as  those ; 
For  me  the  fragrance  of  a  whole  sweet-briar. 
Beside  the  rose  1 


METRUM   PRAXILLAE. 

STREAM    AND   POOL. 


MINE  is  the  eddying  foam  and  the  broken  current. 
Thine  the  serene-flowing  tide,  the  unshattered 
rhythm ; 
Light  touches  me  on  the  surface  with  glints  of  sunshine. 
Dives  in  thy  bosom  disclosing  a  mystic  river : 
Ruffling,  the  wind  takes  the  crest  of  my  waves  resurgent. 
Stretches  his  pinions  at  poise  on  thy  even  ripples : 
What  is  my  song  but  the  tumult  of  chafing  forces. 
What  is  thy  silence.  Beloved,  but  enchanted  music  I 


53 


METRUM    PRAXILLAE. 


SWEET  of  my  Poet  how  sweet  are  the  eyes,  the 
eye-lids, 
Open  as  clear  to  the  sun  as  the  flowers  of  noon-tide ; 
Honeyed  the  light  they  secure  in  their  shaded  amber, 
Filling  the  sense  with  desire  to  inhale  their  fragrance, 
Linger,  and  feast  at  their  brink  as  at  brink  of  roses. 


POWER   IN    SILENCE. 


THOUGH  I  sing  high,  and  chaunt  above  her, 
Praising  my  girl. 
It  were  not  right 
To  reckon  her  the  poorer  lover ; 

She  does  not  love  me  less 
For  her  royal,  jewelled  speechlessness, 
She  is  the  sapphire,  she  the  light. 
The  music  in  the  pearl. 

II. 

Not  from  pert  birds  we  learn  the  spring-tide 

From  open  sky. 

What  speaks  to  us 
Closer  than  far  distances  that  hide 
In  woods,  what  is  more  dear 
Than  a  cherry-bough,  bees  feeding  near 
In  the  soft,  proffered  blooms  ?    Lo,  I 
Am  fed  and  honoured  thus. 


54 


She  has  the  star's  own  pulse ;  its  throbbing 

Is  a  quick  light. 
She  is  a  dove 
My  soul  draws  to  its  breast ;  her  sobbing 

Is  for  the  warm  dark  there  1 
In  the  heat  of  her  wings  I  would  not  care 
My  close-housed  bird  should  take  her  flight 

To  magnify  our  love. 


DAYBREAK. 

SHALL  there  ever  be  a  morn 
I  might  breathe  beside  her, 
And  yet  choose  to  wake  forlorn, 
And  yet  choose  to  wake  in  death  ? 
Eros,  while  my  Love  has  breath 
I  will  breathe  beside  her. 


CONSTANCY. 
'*  I  am  pure!  I  am  pure  I   I  am  pure  I" 

I  LOVE  her  with  the  seasons,  with  the  winds, 
As  the  stars  worship,  as  anemones 
Shudder  in  secret  for  the  sun,  as  bees 
Buzz  round  an  open  flower :  in  all  kinds 
My  love  is  perfect,  and  in  each  she  finds 
Herself  the  goal ;  then  why,  intent  to  tease 
And  rob  her  delicate  spirit  of  its  ease 
Hastes  she  to  range  me  with  inconstant  minds  ? 


55 


I 


If  she  should  die,  if  I  were  left  at  large 

On  earth  without  her — I,  on  earth,  the  same 

Quick  mortal  with  a  thousand  cries,  her  spell 

She  fears  would  break.     And  I  confront  the  charge. 

As  sorrowing,  and  as  careless  of  my  fame, 

As  Christ  intact  before  the  infidel. 


THE  FOURTH  BOOK  OF  SONGS 


THE  TABLE  OF  THE  FOURTH  BOOK. 

/.  A  shady  silence  fills 

2.  The  iris  wasjyellowy  the  moon  was  pale 

^.  In  winter i  afternoons  are  short 

4.  A  valley  of  oak-trees 

5.  She  was  a  royal  lady  horn 

6.  'Leda  was  weary  of  her  state j  the  crown 

was  heaxy  on  her  head 

7.  Ai&,  hov3  beautiful  is  youth 


THE  FOURTH  BOOK  OF  SONGS. 

A  SHADY  silence  fills, 
At  deep  mid-eventide, 
The  rockless  land  of  hills 

Where  two  slow  rivers  glide. 
The  gnats  beneath  the  gloom 

Have  failed  in  song, 
Yet  something  through  the  combe 

Comes  like  a  sound  along. 
Though  very  far  as  yet, 

Though  no  one  is  in  sight. 
Nor  could  a  mortal  set 
Such  alien  echoes  moving  through  the  night. 

'Tis  not  an  hour  to  fear : 

The  sun  is  gone  to  bed, 
The  clouds  from  dusk  are  clear. 

And  there  are  overhead 
But  one  or  two  large  stars, 

A  bat  or  two. 
Yet,  hark  1  a  jangle  mars 

The  peaceful  mountain-view, 


6i 


Like  the  far  cry  of  hounds 
Chasing  a  distant  prey : 
The  chime  of  yelping  sounds — 
Oh,  will  it  sink,  or  will  it  swell  this  way  ? 


It  comes  as  comes  the  wind. 

With  little  noise  at  first. 
Exultantly  combined, 

Halloes  and  bays  outburst 
Upon  that  solitude 

Where  two  streams  meet : 
Then  in  a  scramble  rude 

Of  shoulders,  ears,  and  feet 
The  banhounds  rush  along, 

And  drive  before  their  jaws 
A  wincing,  naked  throng 
At  flight  from  heated  breath  and  thorny  claws. 


These  are  the  souls  that  moan 

Because  upon  their  birth 
God's  water  was  not  thrown ; 

Or  those  who  left  the  earth 
Impenitent,  unblessed. 
Now  all  must  fly. 
While  summer  is  at  rest. 

And,  hunted  furiously. 
Be  caught  and  bitten  through 

By  dogs  of  faery-breed. 
Sleek  creatures,  ebon-blue. 
With  lusting  teeth  and  fore-ordained  speed. 


62 


They  scour  the  mountain  side, 

The  upland  township,  then 
Skirt  the  dark  valley  wide, 

A  cloud  of  dogs  and  men  : 
Behind,  tall  ladies  race. 

Each  dressed  in  green. 
Each  with  a  smile-lit  face 

And  presence  of  a  queen, 
Who  breathe  from  steely  lips. 

Clap  when  a  soul  is  caught. 
And  urge,  with  corded  whips. 
The  stragglers  of  the  pack  to  fiendish  sport. 

Their  dogs  have  ceased  to  whine ; 

The  whining  doth  not  cease. 
One  cannot  watch  the  kine, 

That  chew  their  cud  in  peace ; 
For  still  the  lengthy  curs. 

It  almost  seems. 
Phantasmal  haunt  the  firs, 

Haunt  the  two  voiceless  streams : 
The  sprites  themselves  have  ghosts 

That  it  is  hard  to  lay, 
And  echoes  walk  in  hosts 
Long  after  the  live  echoes  pass  away. 


63 


THE  iris  was  yellow,  the  moon  was  pale, 
In  the  air  it  was  stiller  than  snow, 
There  was  even  light  through  the  vale, 
But  a  vaporous  sheet 
Clung  about  my  feet. 
And  I  dared  no  further  go. 
I  had  passed  the  pond,  I  could  see  the  stile. 
The  path  was  plain  for  more  than  a  mile. 
Yet  I  dared  no  further  go. 

The  iris-beds  shone  in  my  face,  when,  whist  I 

A  noiseless  music  began  to  blow, 
A  music  that  moved  through  the  mist. 
That  had  not  begun. 
That  would  never  be  done, 
With  that  music  I  must  go : 
And  I  found  myself  in  the  heart  of  the  tune. 
Wheeling  round  to  the  whirr  of  the  moon, 
With  the  sheets  of  mist  below. 

In  my  hands  how  warm  were  the  little  hands. 
Strange,  little  hands  that  I  did  not  know : 
I  did  not  think  of  the  elvan  bands, 
Nor  of  anything 
In  that  whirling  ring — ' 
Here  a  cock  began  to  crow  1 
The  little  hands  dropped  that  had  clung  so  tight, 
And  I  saw  again  by  the  pale  dawnlight 
The  iris-heads  in  a  row. 


64 


A   BALLAD. 

IN  winter,  afternoons  are  short ; 
It  was  a  winter  afternoon. 
The  milking  was  already  done ; 
I  took  my  man,  I  took  my  gun. 
That  we  might  have  some  sport. 

We  stooped  behind  the  tallest  brake ; 
There  was  a  bush  of  golden  furze ; 
The  furze  has  scent  so  rich  and  full 
It  makes  the  sense  a  little  dull : 
I  hardly  felt  awake. 

Oh,  could  it  be  the  whirr  of  game, 
That  sudden,  little  spring  of  noise ! 
Robin  was  shouting  in  the  wind ; 
He  must  have  left  me  far  behind, 
So  faint  his  whistle  came. 

I  felt  the  bushes  with  my  hand : 
There  was  a  certain  furrowed  nook — 
The  gorse  with  fire  was  black  and  brown. 
But  there  the  music  drew  me  down 
Into  a  clear,  white  land. 

There  was  more  grass  than  I  could  see, 
The  grass  was  marked  with  pale,  green  rings ; 
And  oh,  the  sudden  joy  I  felt 
To  see  them  dancing  at  full  pelt, 
The  whole  Fair  Family. 


65 


We  did  not  touch  the  pale,  green  rings, 
I  think  we  eddied  through  the  air ; 
A  swirl  of  dew  was  in  my  face, 
And,  looking  downward,  I  could  trace 
The  mark  of  pale,  green  rings. 

The  measure  scarcely  was  begun ; 
I  could  have  danced  a  hundred  years  I 
But  Robin,  he  would  surely  scoff — 
Straightway  I  broke  the  measure  off : 
My  eyes  blinked  in  the  sun. 

If  Robin  should  be  come  to  harm  1 
I  looked  for  him  to  left,  to  right : 
In  winter,  afternoons  are  short, 
It  was  too  late  to  think  of  sport ; 
I  turned  back  to  the  farm. 

My  mother  all  the  tale  should  know. 
How  thick  the  trees  above  the  hedge ! 
There  was  a  pond  that  I  must  pass ; 
I  looked  in  it  as  in  a  glass ; 
My  hair  was  white  as  snow. 

The  servants  saw  me  pass  and  smiled. 
But  that  was  not  the  worst,  for  when 
I  looked  in  at  the  parlour  door 
The  children  rose  up  from  the  floor : 
I  had  no  wife  or  child. 

They  gathered  round  me  in  a  flock ; 
The  mistress  jeered.     But  who  was  he. 


66 


That  old  man  with  the  bald,  bent  head  ? 
Oh,  he  would  know  I  had  been  dead, 
He  would  not  feel  the  shock. 

His  master  was  away  from  home, 
He  said,  and  rose  to  give  me  food ; 
"  But  my  old  master  has  been  lost 
These  fifty  years."    A  terror  crost 
His  breast,  and  he  was  dumb. 

I  could  not  touch  the  wheaten  bread, 
So  plain  I  saw  the  clear,  white  land. 

0  cursed,  cursed  elfin-race. 
Mid  living  men  I  have  no  place, 

And  yet  I  am  not  dead. 

1  travel  on  from  town  to  town. 
But  always  by  a  dusty  road. 

By  market-streets,  by  booths  and  fairs ; 
I  have  great  terror  of  the  snares 
Upon  the  furzy  down. 

But  I  must  see  my  home  once  more. 
Nor  fear  to  eat  the  wheaten  bread. 
Oh,  some  day  I  must  see  my  friend. 
And  eat  with  him,  and  make  an  end, 
For  Robin  is  fourscore. 


67 


A  VALLEY  of  oak-trees, 
A  streamlet  between  them 
As  twisted  as  these ; 
Few  mortals  have  seen  them, 
Or  crossed  the  low  bridge 
From  oak-ridge  to  oak-ridge. 
Why  is  there  a  bridge 
Where  no  one  can  heed  it. 
Or  traveller  need  it. 
Small  bridge  between  small  oak-trees  ? 

The  Dryads  have  homesteads, 

And  cousins  and  neighbours  : 

A  Dryad,  who  weds 

With  a  Faun,  often  labours 

To  reach  her  own  folk 

In  some  far  away  oak ; 

For  she  loves  the  old  folk 

Of  the  glade  where  she  tarried 

Before  she  was  married ; 

And  then  on  the  bridge  she  treads. 

Or  one,  who  with  boldness 

Is  wooed  by  a  satyr. 

Her  sandals  will  press 

On  the  boards  with  the  patter 

Of  leaves  in  the  wind ; 

And  looking  behind, 


68 


Half-scared  by  the  wind, 
Her  face  coy  and  simple 
She  hides  mid  her  wimple, 
And  runs  in  her  floating  dress. 

Thus  often  and  sweetly 
The  bridge  hath  united, 
Hath  helped  those  who  fly, 
Hath  brought  the  invited 
And  sped  the  late  guest. 
From  east  and  from  west 
Pass  lover  and  guest, 
While  the  bridge  is  unbroken 
In  the  countryside  oaken. 
And  Dryads  and  Fauns  live  by. 


A   BALLAD. 

SHE  was  a  royal  lady  born. 
Who  loved  a  shepherd-lad  ; 
To  bring  the  smile  into  his  face 
Was  all  the  care  she  had. 

His  murderers  brought  a  bloody  crook 
To  show  her  of  their  deed  : 

She  eyed  it  with  a  queenly  eye ; 
And  leapt  into  the  mead. 

And  there  she  settled  with  the  lambs. 
And  felt  their  woolly  fleece ; 

It  was  their  cry  among  the  hills 
That  brought  her  to  her  peace. 

69 


And  when  at  night  she  folded  them, 

Outside  the  wattle-fold 
She  took  her  lute  and  sang  to  them 

To  keep  them  from  the  cold. 

She  was  a  happy  innocent 

Whom  men  had  sought  to  spite. 

Alack,  no  sovereign  lady  lives 
A  life  of  such  delight. 

For  no  one  crossed  her  any  more, 

Or  sought  to  bend  her  will ; 
She  watched  the  ewes  at  lambing-time, 

And  in  the  winter  chill. 

And  when  her  flock  was  gathered  far 

One  day  beside  the  brook, 
The  shepherds  found  that  she  had  died. 

Her  arms  about  her  crook. 

She  had  no  memories  to  forget, 

Nor  any  sins  to  weep ; 
O  God,  that  I  might  be  like  her, 

And  live  among  the  sheep  1 


70 


LEDA  was  wearied  of  her  state,  the  crown 
was  heavy  on  her  head ; 
She  put  the  crown  away, 
And  ran  down  to  the  river-bed 
For  a  whole  holiday. 

She  came  to  draw  free,  lonely  breaths  beside 
the  mellow,  autumn  pools ; 
Counting  their  starry  drops. 
She  mused  on  the  lone  god  who  rules 
Above  the  mountain-tops. 

And,  as  she  worshipped  him  with  secret  heart, 
among  the  willow-trees 
She  felt  how  something  sailed 
And  gathered  round  her  as  a  breeze : 
The  breath  within  her  failed. 

There  were  white  feathers  on  her  breast  when 
she  awoke ;  the  water  stirred 
With  motion  of  white  wings, 
And  in  her  ear  that  note  she  heard 
The  swan  a-dying  sings. 


71 


TRIUMPH  OF  BACCHUS  AND  ARIADNE. 

FROM   LORENZO   DI   MBDICI. 

"  Quant*  h  bella  giovinezza." 

AH,  how  beautiful  is  youth, 
Youth  that  fleets  so  fast  away  1 
He  who  would  be  gay,  forsooth. 
Let  him  hasten  to  be  gay ! 
This  is  Bacchus  we  are  seeing, 
Ariadne — ^how  they  glow  I 
Always  happy  and  agreeing. 
Since  'tis  plain  that  nothing  matters 
While  they  love  each  other  so  ; 
And  these  others,  nymphs  and  satyrs, 
Dance  beside  them  all  the  way : 
He  who  would  be  gay,  forsooth, 
Let  him  hasten  to  be  gay. 


See  1  these  little  fauns,  a-bubble 
With  pure  mischief,  muse  and  plot 
How  to  get  the  nymphs  in  trouble. 
And  a  thousand  traps  have  baited 
Mid  the  bushes,  in  the  grot ; 
Now  by  Bacchus*  heat  elated 
They  are  skipping  all  the  way : 
He  who  would  be  gay,  forsooth, 
Let  him  hasten  to  be  gay. 


72 


And  the  tricksome  nymphs  discover 
It  is  nice  to  be  pursued, 
Caught  and  worried  by  a  lover ; 
Who  should  frown  at  Love's  ensnaring 
Were  a  thankless  creature  rude ; 
So  they  mingle,  pleasure  sharing, 
Making  gambol  all  the  way : 
He  who  would  be  gay,  forsooth. 
Let  him  hasten  to  be  gay. 


On  an  ass  Silenus  hoary 
Rides,  with  all  his  flesh  and  years, 
Drunken,  steeped  in  Bacchic  glory. 
At  his  figure's  backward  swaying 
He  is  foremost  in  his  jeers  ; 
And  at  whiles,  in  snatches  singing 
With  the  others,  cheers  the  way : 
He  who  would  be  gay,  forsooth. 
Let  him  hasten  to  be  gay. 


This  is  Midas  :  as  they  tell  us, 

All  he  touches  turns  to  gold, 

But  his  gift  scarce  makes  us  jealous ; 

For  what  good  is  there  in  treasure. 

Treasure  more  than  man  can  hold. 

If  he  cannot  take  his  pleasure, 

Being  thirsty  all  the  way  ? 

He  who  would  be  gay,  forsooth, 

Let  him  hasten  to  be  gay. 

73 


Now  all  ears  be  set  a-tingle, 
Open,  quick  to  every  bliss  1 
Young  and  old  together  mingle, 
Young  nor  old  possess  the  morrow, 
'Tis  to-day  we  meet  and  kiss  ; 
We  must  drop  our  grief,  for  sorrow 
Would  pollute  this  holy  way : 
He  who  would  be  gay,  forsooth, 
Let  him  hasten  to  be  gay. 


Youth  and  maiden,  swell  the  chorus  1 
In  our  hearts  how  warm  and  sweet 
Thus  to  feel  the  gods  are  for  us. 
Loving  music,  loving  dances. 
Merry  with  our  moving  feet ! 
Let  misfortune  as  it  chances 
Strike  across  us  on  our  way : 
He  who  would  be  gay,  forsooth, 
Let  him  hasten  to  be  gay. 
Ah,  how  beautiful  is  youth, 
Youth  that  fleets  so  fast  away  I 


THE  FIFTH  BOOK  OF  SONGS 


THE  TABLE  OF  THE  FIFTH  BOOK. 

/.  ^he  fled  from  love,  her  suit  was  granted 

2 .  A  land  of  riotous  harvest  and  of  sweat 

^,  A  nightingale  wakes  me.     Think  of  this 

4.  Two  lovers  came;  of  many  a  common  thing 

5.  W^  met 

6.  As  two  fair  vessels  side  hy  side 

7.  "Dost  thou  not  hear  ?    Amid  dun,  lonely  hills 

8.  A  train 

9.  The  tips  of  the  hills  rise  up,  like  curled 

10.  The  love  that  breeds 

1 1.  Full  summer  and  at  noon  ;  from  a  waste  bed 
i2>  Your  rose  is  dead 

i^.  Ijooky  in  the  early  light 

14.  There  is  a  month  between  the  swath  and  sheaf 

75.  The  lady  I  have  vowed  to  paint 

16.  W^  meet»    I  cannot  look  up;  I  hear 

ly.  I  have  found  her  power 

1 8'  A  branch  of  wild-rose  buds 

1  p.  In  a  vase  of  gold 

20.  lilies,  are  you  come 

21.  They  are  terribly  white 

22.  I  live  in  the  world  for  his  sake 

2^.  I  hear  thine  iterating  voice  inflight 

24.  Gay  lucidity 

2^,  Stars  at  break  of  day 

26,  H/s  ship  has  touched  the  land:  what  curses 

2  J.  Ijife  was  a  rose,  a  rose  to  me 

28.  As  the  young  phcenix,  duteous  to  his  sire 


THE  FIFTH  BOOK  OF  SONGS. 

APOLLO*S  TRIUMPH. 

SHE  fled  from  love,  her  suit  was  granted, 
Daphne  was  changed  into  a  laurel-tree. 
But  after,  with  so  keen  a  zest  she  panted 
To  yield  her  sweets,  and,  in  despair, 
Cast  such  engrossing  odours  through  the  air, 
Apollo,  breathing  them,  had  all  he  wanted. 


ALAND  of  riotous  harvest  and  of  sweat, 
A  land  where  men  pull  down  the  boughs  to  get 
Plump  clusters  and  then  ravage  them,  a  land 
Where  some  coarse  mystery  breeds  that  must  expand ; 
A  festival  as  ominous  as  fate, 
A  holiday  that  will  not  satiate. 
Such  laughter  as  must  leap  up  to  a  creed ; 
More  clusters  and  more  crushings  and  more  speed, 
Pressure  of  bubbling  fruit  on  open  lips. 
Squashing  and  spirts  and  juicy  finger-tips  ! 
For  this  sun-smothered  champaign  were  accurst. 
Should  Bacchus  pass,  with  glazing  eyes,  athirst. 


79 


A  NIGHTINGALE  wakes  me.     Think  of  this  !  ■ 
While  she  sings  so  loud, 
A  woman  is  lying  in  her  shroud 
To  whom  a  lover  has  never  vowed : 
O  wrong  in  the  world,  and  by  God  allowed ! 

Ah  me,  a  girl  to  be  dead,  and  miss 

That  high-and-away,  that  clang  of  pain, 
The  way  Love  trebles  his  sweets  again, 
And  then  feels  it  vain, 

Jarjarral  and  keeps  to  the  mocking  strain! 


Two  lovers  came  ;  of  many  a  common  thing 
We  talked ;  then  in  a  ring 
Drew  toward  the  hearth ;  the  winter  daylight  died, 
And  she  was  at  his  side ; 

He  took,  he  stroked  her  hand. 
That  we  might  know 
It  is  just  so 
Love  loves,  the  cadence  of  our  talk  grew  low, 
The  fire  shot  forth  a  brand. 

Then  we  forgot  the  lovers ;  for  the  room 
Was  filling  with  a  doom, 
The  pressure  of  a  Presence  that  we  felt 
Had  power  with  them  that  dwelt 
In  many  a  distant  land 
And  with  the  dead, 
No  word  we  said 
But  in  a  stupor  watched  the  firelight  shed 
Glow  on  the  fondled  hand. 


80 


MARIONETTES. 

WE  met 
After  a  year.     I  shall  never  forget 
How  odd  it  was  for  our  eyes  to  meet, 
For  we  had  to  repeat 
In  our  glances  the  words  that  we  had  said 
In  days  when,  as  our  lashes  lifted 
Or  drooped,  the  universe  was  shifted. 
We  had  not  closed  with  the  past,  then  why 
Did  the  sense  come  over  us  as  a  fetter 
That  all  we  did  speaking  eye  to  eye 
Had  been  done  before  and  so  much  better  ? 
I  think — but  there's  no  saying — 
What  made  us  so  hateful  was  the  rage 
Of  our  souls  at  finding  ourselves  a  stage 
Where  marionettes  were  playing : 
For  a  great  actor  once  had  trod 
Those  boards  and  played  the  god. 


As  two  fair  vessels  side  by  side, 
No  bond  had  tied 
Our  floating  peace ; 
We  thought  that  it  would  never  cease, 
But  like  swan-creatures  we  should  always  glide : 
And  this  is  love 
We  sighed. 


8i 


As  two  grim  vessels  side  by  side, 
-    Through  wind  and  tide 
War  grappled  us, 
With  bond  as  strong  as  death,  and  thus 
We  drove  on  mortally  allied  : 
And  this  is  hate 
We  cried. 


AN   iEOLIAN    HARP. 

DOST  thou  not  hear  ?    Amid  dun,  lonely  hills 
Far  off  a  melancholy  music  shrills, 
As  for  a  joy  that  no  fruition  fills. 

Who  live  in  that  far  country  of  the  wind  ? 

The  unclaimed  hopes,  the  powers  but  half -divined, 

The  shy,  heroic  passions  of  mankind. 

And  all  are  young  in  those  reverberant  bands ; 
None  marshals  them,  no  mellow  voice  commands ; 
They  whirl  and  eddy  as  the  shifting  sands. 

There,  there  is  ruin,  and  no  ivy  clings  ; 
There  pass  the  mourners  for  untimely  things. 
There  breaks  the  stricken  cry  of  crownless  kings. 

But  ever  and  anon  there  spreads  a  boom 
Of  wonder  through  the  air,  arraigning  doom 
With  ineffectual  plaint  as  from  a  tomb. 


82 


A  TRAIN 
That  traverses  Europe's  central  plain  1 — 
Thousands  of  miles  through  the  moulded  furrows 
Twinkling  in  sunset ;  as  night  grows  brown 

A  Power  comes  down, 
Stretches  its  wings  on  the  infinite  plain, 
Strains  to  the  earth :  one  bows  to  its  reign, 
And  prays  and  prays  through  the  thousand  furrows 

For  a  heart  subdued 
To  the  heart  of  that  infinite  solitude. 


A    SUPPOSITION. 

THE  tips  of  the  hills  rise  up,  like  curled 
Waves  on  the  verge,  from  Gallow  Hill : 
Rim  on  rim  what  a  wide,  round  world 
The  man  to  be  hanged  must  have  looked  on,  till 
It  closed  up  tight  in  the  grip  of  the  noose. 
To  think  that  just  on  a  day  like  this — 
Harvest  in  valley,  sun  profuse — 
Some  six  of  one's  fellows  should  deprive 
A  soul  of  the  joy  of  being  alive, 
And  watching  the  sun  and  the  mountains  kiss  1 
But  what  if  his  captors  after  all 
Were  baulked  of  putting  their  man  in  thrall, 
And,  just  when  they  choked  him,  eye  and  breath. 
Their  victim  were  sailing  out  clear  to  death. 
No  longer  to  blink  in  the  flashing  sun. 
To  be  in  the  light,  in  the  very  run. 


83 


And  reach  past  the  mountains  curling  rim ; — 
If,  while  the  troopers  were  burying  him, 
With  thought  of  hell  and  the  judgment  grim, 
He  were  stretching  his  limbs  from  life's  fetter-curse 
To  rest  in  the  golden  universe  ? 


UNBOSOMING. 

THE  love  that  breeds 
In  my  heart  for  thee  1 
As  the  iris  is  full,  brimful  of  seeds, 
And  all  that  it  flowered  for  among  the  reeds 
Is  packed  in  a  thousand  vermilion-beads 
That  push,  and  riot,  and  squeeze,  and  clip, 
Till  they  burst  the  sides  of  the  silver  scrip, 
And  at  last  we  see 

What  the  bloom,  with  its  tremulous,  bowery  fold 
Of  zephyr-petal  at  heart  did  hold : 
So  my  breast  is  rent 

With  the  burthen  and  strain  of  its  great  content ; 
For  the  summer  of  fragrance  and  sighs  is  dead, 
The  harvest-secret  is  burning  red. 
And  I  would  give  thee,  after  my  kind. 
The  final  issues  of  heart  and  mind. 


84 


FULL  summer  and  at  noon ;  from  a  waste  bed 
Convolvulus,  musk-mallow,  poppies  spread 
The  triumph  of  the  sunshine  overhead. 

Blue  on  refulgent  ash-trees  lies  the  heat ; 

It  tingles  on  the  hedge-rows ;  the  young  wheat 

Sleeps,  warm  in  golden  verdure,  at  my  feet. 

The  pale,  sweet  grasses  of  the  hayfield  blink ; 
The  heath-moors,  as  the  bees  of  honey  drink. 
Suck  the  deep  bosom  of  the  day.     To  think 

Of  all  that  beauty  by  the  light  defined 

None  shares  my  vision  1     Sharply  on  my  mind 

Presses  the  sorrow :  fern  and  flower  are  blind. 


YOUR  rose  is  dead-, 
They  said. 
The  Grand  Mogul — for  so  her  splendour 
Exceeded,  masterful,  it  seemed  her  due 
By  dominant  male  titles  to  commend  her : 

But  I,  her  lover,  knew 
That  myriad-coloured  blackness,  wrought  with  fire. 
Was  woman  to  the  rage  of  my  desire. 

My  rose  was  dead  ?     She  lay 
Against  the  sulphur,  lemon  and  blush-gray 
Of  younger  blooms,  transformed,  morose. 
Her  shrivelling  petals  gathered  round  her  close, 
And  where  before, 


8s 


Coils  twisted  thickest  at  her  core 
A  round,  black  hollow :  it  had  come  to  pass 
Hints  of  tobacco,  leather,  brass, 
Confounded,  gave  her  texture  and  her  colour. 
I  watched  her,  as  I  watched  her,  growing  duller, 

Majestic  in  recession 

From  flesh  to  mould. 
My  rose  is  dead — I  echo  the  confession. 

And  they  pass  to  pluck  another ; 
^►While  I,  drawn  on  to  vague,  prodigious  pleasure, 

Fondle  my  treasure. 

0  sweet,  let  death  prevail 

Upon  you,  as  your  nervous  outlines  thicken 
And  totter,  as  your  crimsons  stale, 

1  feel  fresh  rhythms  quicken. 

Fresh  music  follows  you.     Corrupt,  grow  old, 

Drop  inwardly  to  ashes,  smother 

Your  burning  spices,  and  entoil 

My  senses  till  you  sink  a  clod  of  fragrant  soil  1 


THE  DEPTHS  OF  THE  GRASS. 

LOOK,  in  the  early  light, 
Down  to  the  infinite 
Depths  at  the  deep  grass-roots ; 
Where  the  sun  shoots 
In  golden  veins,  as  looking  through 
A  dear  pool  one  sees  it  do ; 
Where  campion  drifts 
Its  bladders,  iris-brinded,  through  the  rifts 
Of  rising,  falling  seed 


86 


That  the  winds  lightly  scour — 
Down  to  the  matted  earth  where  over 
And  over  again  crow's-foot  and  clover 

And  pink  bindweed 

Dimly,  steadily  flower. 


JULY. 

THERE  is  a  month  between  the  swath  and  sheaf 
When  grass  is  gone 
And  com  still  grassy, 

When  limes  are  massy 
With  hanging  leaf 
And  pollen-coloured  blooms  whereon 
Bees  are  voices  we  can  hear, 
So  hugely  dumb 
This  silent  month  of  the  attaining  year. 
The  white-faced  roses  slowly  disappear 
From  field  and  hedgerow,  and  no  more  flowers  come : 
Earth  lies  in  strain  of  powers 
Too  terrible  for  flowers : 
And  would  we  know 

Her  burthen  we  must  go 
Forth  from  the  vale,  and,  ere  the  sunstrokes  slacken. 
Stand  at  a  moorland's  edge  and  gaze 
Across  the  hush  and  blaze 
Of  the  clear-burning,  verdant  summer  bracken ; 
For  in  that  silver  flame 
Is  writ  July's  own  name — 
The  ineffectual,  numbed  sweet 
Of  passion  at  its  heat. 


87 


THE  lady  I  have  vowed  to  paint 
Has  contour  of  a  rose, 
No  rigid  shadow  of  a  saint 

Upon  the  wall  she  throws; 
Her  tints  so  softly  lie 
Against  the  air  they  almost  vie 
With  the  sea*s  outline  smooth  against  the  sky. 

To  those  whom  damask  hues  beguile 

Her  praise  I  do  not  speak, 
I  find  her  colour  in  the  smile 

Warm  on  her  warm,  blond  cheek  : 

Then  to  the  eyes  away 
It  spreads,  those  eyes  of  mystic  gray 
That  with  mirage  of  their  own  vision  play. 

Her  h^r,  about  her  brow,  bums  bright. 

Her  tresses  are  the  gold 
That  in  a  missal  keeps  the  light 

Solemn  and  pure.     Behold 
Her  lashes*  glimmerings 
Have  the  dove*s  secret  springs 
Of  amber  sunshine  when  she  spreads  her  wings. 


88 


WE  meet.    I  cannot  look  up ;  I  hear 
He  hopes  that  the  rainy  fog  will  clear : 
With  a  flushing  cheek,  I  hope  it  may, 
And  at  last  I  seek  his  eyes. 
Oh,  to  greet  such  skies — 
The  delicate,  violet,  thunder  gray, 
Behind,  a  spirit  at  mortal  play ! 
Who  cares  that  the  fog  should  roll  away  ? 


I  HAVE  found  her  power  I 
From  her  roving  eyes 
Just  a  gift  of  blue, 
That  away  she  threw 
As  a  girl  may  throw  a  flower. 
I  am  weary  of  glances ; 
This  blue  enhances 
My  life :  I  have  found  her  power. 


ONE   BRANCH. 

A  BRANCH  of  wild-rose  buds 
In  sunny  studs 
Of  orange-red,  flecked  by  the  warm,  diffused, 

Violet  flowers, 
Breathing  a  breath  transfused 

As  if  with  showers 
Of  the  first  dew  that  fell 
When  all  things  done  were  well. 


89 


IN  a  vase  of  gold 
And  scarlet,  how  cold 
The  flicker  of  wrinkled  grays 
In  this  iris-sheaf !     My  eyes  fill  with  wonder 
At  the  tossed,  moist  light,  at  the  withered  scales  under 
And  among  the  uncertain  sprays. 

The  wavings  of  white 
On  the  cloudy  light, 
And  the  finger-marks  of  pearl  ; 
The  facets  of  crystal,  the  golden  feather, 
The  way  that  the  petals  fold  over  together, 
The  way  that  the  buds  unfurl ! 


TIGER-LILIES. 

LILIES,  are  you  come ! 
I  quail  before  you  as  your  buds  upswell ; 
It  is  the  miracle 
Of  fire  and  sculpture  in  your  brazen  urns 

That  strikes  me  dumb, — 
Fire  of  midsummer  that  burns, 

And  as  it  passes. 
Flinging  rich  sparkles  on  its  own  clear  blaze, 
Wreathes  with  the  wreathing  tongues  and  rays, 
Great  tiger-lilies,  of  your  deep-cleft  masses  I 
It  is  the  wonder 
I  am  laid  under 
By  the  firm  heaves 
And  overtumbling  edges  of  your  liberal  leaves. 


T* 


CYCLAMENS. 

^HEY  are  terribly  white: 

There  is  snow  on  the  ground, 
And  a  moon  on  the  snow  at  night ; 
The  sky  is  cut  by  the  winter  light ; 
Yet  I,  who  have  all  these  things  in  ken, 
Am  struck  to  the  heart  by  the  chiselled  white 
Of  this  handful  of  cyclamen. 


I  LIVE  in  the  world  for  his  sake. 
For  the  eyes  that  sleep  and  wake, 
I  live  in  the  world  for  his  eyes : 
Earth's  kingdoms  may  pass  away, 
I  heed  not  these  things  of  clay, 
But  I  live,  I  love,  I  pray 
From  the  light  of  his  eyes. 


TO  A   CUCKOO    HEARD   IN   EARLY   MORNING, 

I  HEAR  thine  iterating  voice  in  flight, 
Cuckoo,  while  every  wood-bird's  song  is  furled. 
To  rise  like  thee !  to  take  my  range  of  light. 
And  spread  unravished  echoes  through  the  world ! 


91 


FEBRUARY. 

GAY  lucidity, 
Not  yet  sunshine,  in  the  air; 
Tinglingsecrets  hidden  everywhere, 
Each  at  watch  for  each ; 
Sap  within  the  hillside  beech. 
Not  a  leaf  to  see. 


STARS  AT   DAWN. 

STARS  at  break  of  day 
Rushing  to  your  rhythmic  play 
Round  the  sun  so  far  away, 
Pray  for  me  as  ye  dance  and  bound, 
Skimming  the  sky  with  a  lovely  sound. 
Pray  for  me,  as  in  a  ring 
To  the  crystal  light  ye  sing, 
That  the  image  of  your  glee 
May  at  heart  give  peace  to  me  1 


TOUCHING  THE    LAND. 

HIS  ship  has  touched  the  land:  what  curses 
Rise  in  my  heart  to  feel  him  there  1 
His  ship  is  sailing  on  to  verses 
Of  lyric  passion  and  of  prayer. 


92 


LIFE  was  a  rose,  a  rose  to  me 
Through  which  the  lucid  blood  flowed  free, 
Through  which  the  sunlight  slanted : 
The  inner  circle  was  a  flower  enchanted, 
And  that  some  enemy 
Has  rifled  from  the  core ; 
I  smell  my  rose  no  more ; 
The  zest  of  the  intricacy  is  gone. 
And  the  wide  leaves  flower  on. 


RENEWAL. 

As  the  young  phoenix,  duteous  to  his  sire, 
Lifts  in  his  beak  the  creature  he  has  been, 
And,  laying  o*er  the  corse  broad  vans  for  screen, 
Bears  it  to  solitudes,  erects  a  pyre. 
And,  soon  as  it  is  wasted  by  the  fire. 
Grides  with  disdainful  claw  the  ashes  clean, 
Then  spreading  unencumbered  wings  serene 
Mounts  to  the  aether  with  renewed  desire : 

So  joyously  I  lift  myself  above 

The  life  I  buried  in  hot  flames  to-day ; 

The  flames  themselves  are  dead — and  I  can  range 

Alone  through  the  untarnished  sky  I  love, 

And  trust  myself,  as  from  the  grave  one  may, 

To  the  enchanting  miracles  of  change. 


PRINTED  BY 

SMITH  6f  SALE 

PORTLAND 

MAINE 


